


What Does it Mean?

by theshymuffin



Category: Violet Evergarden (Anime)
Genre: F/M, the romance is there but very subtle, this takes place pre show during the war, violet is clueless but we all love her, you almost have to squint
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-12-18
Updated: 2019-01-05
Packaged: 2019-09-22 11:04:42
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 5,206
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17058608
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/theshymuffin/pseuds/theshymuffin
Summary: "May I ask what you are doing, Major?""I'm writing a letter."This began as a one shot that grew into a small collection of short stories vaguely tied together. As we know, Violet is very curious.





	1. Mother

Embers snap, and artillery rings in the distance. Here they have a fire, they are concealed by trees, safe in the camp. Her bones ache from days of battle. Still, she refuses to go to sleep, even as the copper moon hangs high in the sky. She will not rest until the Major does.

He lays propped against a crate of medical supplies, a ratty blanket tucked around his shoulders. His eyes reflect the firelight, like pools of jade nicked with gold. They are still intent on the paper in his lap, on whatever he is scrawling out in an ink darker than the sky.

The girl tips her head back to gaze at the velvet smoke pierced by starlight. A small hand, numbed from the night's chill hold, travels to her throat, where a dull ache is spreading from her heart. She knows the feeling she gets whenever she looks into the Major's eyes is the same as when she looks at the glittering celestials.

Sometimes it is a greater burden than she can bare.

“Major?”

He shifts, body stiff, and for the first time in a good while, he looks at her. “Yes, Violet?”

“Will you not rest tonight?” Her voice is like a wisp in the air. “Are you not tired?”

“I'll go to sleep when I've finished,” he says gently. “But you should go lay down.”

“No,” she rushes. “I will stay with you.”

Something she doesn't understand enters his eyes. It is something she doesn't understand, but is beginning to see more and more. She doesn't know how to ask what it means.

“Okay.” He stares into the licking flames a moment, then back to her. “Are you cold?”

“It is not a problem.”

The Major is already removing the blanket from around him. “Come over here.”

Violet rolls onto tired feet, but nothing could keep her from obeying. She crouches at his side, longing to be close to him. Perhaps he knows. She doesn't have to tell him. He drapes the tattered cloth around her frame, along with his left arm. The ache in her heart swells as he pulls her to his side, and warmth fizzles through her numb body like embers in ash.

Her eyes trail his hand as he goes back to his task, letters, words she has not learned to read yet blooming across the page. One of her hands finds its way out of her cocoon, and before she can think, her pale, dirty fingers are trailing across the snowy sheet of paper.

The Major stops writing. “Yes, Violet?”

“May I ask what you are doing?”

“I'm writing a letter.”

“What is a letter?”

His left hand finds its way into her mangled hair. “It's a way to communicate with others. You can say whatever you want in one.”

“Who do you wish to communicate with?”

The Major hesitates before he replies. “I'm writing to my mother.”

“Sir, what is a mother?”

His fingers comb through her long hair, silvery in the starlit night. “A mother. . . a mother is someone that cares for you. They clothe you and feed you.” He works through tangles and dirt. She wants to know why his eyes have begun to shine with tears. “They teach you and protect you, and look after you.”

“I see.”

An explosion across the hilltops turns both their heads. The battle has not stilled since dawn. Their camp will be smaller after this. She is used to faces disappearing. To the constant shuffle of troops around her. All but one. There is one who is constant. Always there, as dependable as the stars that peek out every night. Someone who has taught her, protected her, and looked after her.

“Are you my mother, Major?”

His hand stills, and his eyes blink down at her. “No,” he says. “No, Violet. I'm not your mother.”

Violet's eyes simply swivel back to the fire. Exhaustion eats at her mind, fed by the soothing fingers working through her locks. She has told the Major before, her hair would be easier to manage if it were short, like his. He tells her he likes it longer. That's it's pretty this way.

She'd never heard that word before she met the Major, either. Now, she's not sure how he could ever look at her hair, nesting so much grime, smoke, and blood, and think it pretty.

The heat that travels through his uniform through her own makes her drowsy, and she burrows closer to him, eyelids heavy. She draws a weighty breath, and for a moment she pretends she is an animal who has found a safe place to hibernate for the winter. Maybe she will pretend, just for a moment, that she can hibernate through the war.

“Major Gilbert?” Her voice is muffled against his coat, garbled through a yawn. “Do I have a mother?”

His voice is hushed, just above the batter of gunfire in the distance. It seems so far away now. Almost like a dream. Sleep is close for the young girl. “You don't have a mother.” Strong arms tighten around her wiry shoulders. “But you have me.”

Finally. Something she understands.

 


	2. Happily Ever After

Candlelight dances to the tinkling of glasses. A feast fills the length of the mahogany dinner table. After months of hardtack and dried meat, it seems too grand to believe. Then again, it's a week from Christmas. Perhaps this could be counted a gift.

Gilbert is all too familiar with wealth. Balconies, wine, and the glitter of jewels. He grew up with it.

Violet did not.

Her eyes are round, blue darting around to take in the lush space, of a fireplace, emerald carpet, and ornate woodwork, obscured by evergreen and the flock of ladies and gentlemen in their finest attire. All friends of the Bougainvillea family, of course. All whisper of their youngest son, and the child known as the weapon.

If he wasn't sure before, now he knows, the invitation for this evening was more than cordiality or social obligation. It is curiosity.

Gilbert wouldn't have brought her here, of all places, but she'd insisted. Not that he should have been surprised. Violet hardly left his side since the day he decided to take her in. He only wanted to protect her from being the target of gossip and source of entertainment for the evening. To shield her from socialites that saw her as a shell of a girl, because that's what they call her.

Though he did his best to tame her appearance for the dinner party, she reminds him of a jewel that is uncut, surrounded by gems already prepared and in their settings. Her polished shoes are still old boots, her clothes still a uniform too large. At least he managed to brush out her hair and into a neat braid.

A train of children snake around full skirts and huddles of guests. For a moment, he wishes Violet did belong here. That she could be like the other children. That she could have a dress that fit her, and bows in her hair. That she could laugh the way they did.

But she does not.

Violet doesn't say a word through the entire evening. For all the conversation she sparks, no one cares to speak to her. All until the Mistress of the house, Lady Silbern, drifts over to them.

“There you are. How are you finding the party?”

“Everything is wonderful,” Gil assures her. “You're very kind to host us.”

At this, her hazel eyes drift to the girl. Something warm, something no one ever has in their eyes when they look at Violet is there. “How about you? Have you had enough to eat?”

“It was sufficient.”

The cool response doesn't seem to bother Lady Silbern at all. In fact, she smiles. “Good.” Her hands had been hidden behind her back, but now she reveals what she's been holding. A thin package, wrapped in red paper and decked with a crisp white bow. “This is for you, dear. Call it an early Christmas present if you will.”

Something catches in Gil's throat as he watches the exchange. Violet accepts it with thin hands, holding it out oddly, stiffly. She. . . she's never receieved a Christmas package before, let alone a gift. Her blue eyes drift to the kind face in front of her. She doesn't speak.

He touches her elbow lightly, and leans closer to whisper to her. “Say Thank you.”

“Thank you, Lady Silbern.” Violet folds her arms around the present and holds it tight against the dull green of her uniform.

Their hostess clasps her hands together, content with this. “You're so very welcome.” Her gaze drifts to the Major. “Have a good evening, both of you. And Merry Christmas.”

Violet is the first to return this. The words come out if a bit unsure, like she's tasting them for the first time. “Merry Christmas.”

That night they stay at the Silbern House, in beds that are soft and dry with feathered pillows and fluffed comforters. The murmur and laughter of guests still enjoying the company and their drinks drift through the walls, and the scent of cigars and pine linger in the air.

The clock, feathered with gold that sits in Gil's room chimes softly to sound off an evening that has reached midnight. It's then that he ventures into the hall and down its dimmed length to check on Violet, to see if she's gotten settled.

“You may enter,” she says at his knock.

He finds her huddled at the end of the bed, facing the glow of the fireplace. Their hosts provided her with nightclothes, and the light blue gown pools around her. It's the first time he's seen her in something so feminine. She's almost doll like, trimmed in lace this way. Firelight caresses the softness of her face, and strands of hair that fell from her braid frame her blue eyes, eyes that remain intent on the red package at her feet.

“Are you going to open it?” he asks.

“Open it?”

“Yes.” He comes closer. “It's a present. There's something inside.”

“I see.”

She slides the ribbon away, and her finger catches at the seam of paper. Eyes like blue flushed diamonds widen further at what lays behind the wrapping. A storybook. One filled with illustrations, of castles, and knights, and a dragon. It's about a princess that looks startlingly like Violet, painted in a mauve gown with a golden tiarra atop her willowy hair.

Violet's ghostly hand finds a grip on his sleeve. “Major, will you read this to me?”

He allows her to guide him closer, to sink into the soft bedding by her side. The book spreads over their laps, and he turns to the first page. The logs in the fireplace shift, sending a flurry of sparks upward into the chimney. And in the ever growing quiet of the midnight hour, he begins. “Once upon a time. . .”

As the fable goes on, and Violet is silent, listening to every word, captivated by the colors and characters on the page, he decides that he will teach her to read. He will teach her to read and write, and then she can have every book she wants, learn anything she wants. He will see to it.

At last, the knight in shining armor defeats the gnarly green dragon. The princess is rescued. As most fairy tales do, it ends with a happily ever after.

“What does that mean?” Violet asks. “Happily ever after?”

He closes the book, and hands it back to her. “It means they were safe, and happy, and together forever after that.”

Silence.

“But you know,” he goes on. “This is just a storybook.”

“They're not real.”

“Right.”

Once again, her arms draw around the book. Already, it has become precious to her. After all, she has so little in this world. Her voice drops near a whisper. “Can there be a happily ever after in real life, Major?” While her gaze is steady, void of any tell of emotion, for a moment, in the flicker of the fire, he sees a crack. “Will we ever be safe, and happy, and together for ever?”

It is in this moment he realizes in this tale, in their story, he isn't the knight at all. No. He is the dragon.

 


	3. Afraid

Supplies are low, numbers dwindle. Weary feet leave footprints in the snow as the troop travels through the forest of Effraye. Still they press on. Gilbert spares a look up at the mountains that loom overhead. If they didn't reach the pass before it was blocked by snow, they would be trapped in enemy territory in the dead of winter, without backup, and with little enough supplies to keep them for a week.

After hours of nightmarish travel, the only sound aside from their footfalls, is the groaning of the pines under their white burden. Everyone falls prey to the half asleep numb that comes with the temperature. Violet is just behind him, and her old, patches over patches of boots slip on a streak of ice and rock. She's quick to right herself, but Gilbert lets his worried glance linger. She has grown thinner in the past months, obvious in her face, in her hands that are little more than skeleton. Her uniform swallows her more thoroughly than it ever has. He's tried ordering her to eat more, but she always refuses to take any more than he does.

They can't get out of this frozen purgatory soon enough.

Gunfire splits the quiet, and further ahead, someone in the party lets out a cry. “AMBUSH.”

While the soldiers are alert with firearms raised, no one is prepared for the grenade that drops. Fire and smoke jump with the once pure snow. More come, and their commander quickly realizes that they are outnumbered.

Violet is off in a skip, her golden hair swinging from the momentum. Her footing is sure as she marches straight into the fight.

Gilbert blinks against the sting of smoke, and takes a shot at a flash of the enemy behind an outcropping of rocks. He's quick to follow the girl, hardly shocked at the trail of bodies he finds along the way.

Adrenaline has chased away the exhaustion, the bite of hunger. But as he takes in the battle around him, he knows it is not one they will win. “Violet!” His gun goes off, taking out three footsoldiers where they stand. “At my side!”

She spares her Major a glance, before she takes down her current opponent with a slash of her knife and a well placed kick to the face. Her slender frame retreats, to find the familiar space at Gilbert's side. But before she reaches him, another explosive drives from the rocks. Violet runs, but not far enough to escape the fallout entirely. She crumples to the snow.

Gilbert gives barely a thought to the firefight around him, or that another grenade may drop at any moment. He's at her side in an instant, there to ease her off her face and call her by name. “Violet? Violet, answer me.”

There is shrapnel and gunpowder darkening the blood that slicks the left side of her head, and it has already left a mark in the white beneath her. He pries her hair, wet and crimson away from the wound to get a better look. “Major?” Her voice escapes weakly through cracked lips, and a vomit heaved her small frame. “What is wrong with me?”

“You took a hit. Don't worry. Everything will be okay.” He knows she needs immediate medical aid if his promise is to be anything nearing truth. She is losing blood fast, and there's no way for him to tell how badly the trauma she suffered from the explosion is.

“No, no, no.” She shakes from the cold, or pain, or perhaps an outburst of more emotion than he thought her capable of. Large, icicle like tears trail down her cheeks. “Something is very wrong.” Her pale hands claw at her throat, coming dangerously close to further marring her injury.

“Violet, stop!” Gilbert takes hold of her desperately to pin her arms to his chest, the sight bringing tears to his own eyes. “Listen to my voice, it's going to be alright–”

“No! Major, you must listen.” The terror in her eyes chill him more than any January wind. _“There is something inside of me.”_

“The surgeon can remove the shrapnel.”

She tries to pull away from his iron grip, but the injury has weakened her. Even as she cries, her consciousnesses falters. “You don't understand. . . It's inside of me. How do I make it stop? Tell me how to make it stop.”

There's no time for this, whatever _this_ is. She's never acted this way, never fought against him like this, and he just _needs it to stop._ He grapples for her shoulders then her legs to scoop her out of the bloodied snow. Somehow he makes it away from the battle, away from the line of danger, into the dark spines of trees and the weight of snow that goes past his knees. Still, he trudges on.

She has gone limp in his arms, but has yet to stop wailing. “I can't make it stop. I'm sorry, Major, I can't.”

Desperate for a safe place, he finds a snowdrift adjacent a fallen spruce that has created a cleft large enough for the two to take cover. “Violet, I don't know what you mean.”

“I'm unable to function properly this way. . . I cannot think clearly.” Her voice quivers, but she puts effort into calming herself. “All I can think about is what will happen to me if I am hurt and of no more use to you.” The smallest of tears gather at the corner of her crystalline eyes. “Or what if something would happen to you? I won't let it, Major!”

He takes hold of her hands once again, both pairs stained with red and cold as ice. “Violet, I will listen, but you have to be quiet. If they find us, I won't be able to stop them. They'll kill _both_ of us.”

She bites into her lip hard enough to draw needless blood. “I don't understand, what is happening to me?”

“It's okay.” He tries to make his voice soft, soothing, despite his own trembling. “I think I know what's wrong with you now.”

“What? Please, Major, I must know.”

“You're afraid.”

Her hands twist in his grip, as if her whole body is writhing from whatever host of pains she's baring. “Please. . . can you fix this? Show me how.”

His dry exhale creates a puff of frosty air, close enough to whisper against her own skin. “I'm sorry, Violet. I can't.” He swallows down the taste of smoke and bile. “I can't, because I'm afraid too.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> a/n: I confess to knowing very little about war combat or grenade induced injuries. Feel free to address any of my errors.
> 
> For my next chapter, I promise some nice fluff to help ease your angst. ( ˘ ³˘)♥


	4. Blossoming

The wind carries whispers, a foretelling of spring. They make camp in a valley, even as a carpet of green begins to unfurl. Many of the soldiers take this sunny day as an opportunity to wash laundry at the creek, and the clear water that trickles over marbles of riverstones is soon polluted by the suds of lye soap.

Gilbert sheds his jacket and rolls up the sleeves of his once white shirt. He closes his eyes to soak this moment in. Whistles and a lilting tune carry along the bank and mingle with the trickle of water flow. Even the air is clearer here, the serene pastures seeming untouched by the destruction of war. For perhaps the first time in months, he feels the tug of a smile at his lips.

Violet comes from behind with a basket of dirty clothes. _Their_ laundry, seeing as what she wears is all his, and what is his he considers hers too. “Here is the rest of it, just as you requested, Major.”

“Thank you.” His smile is still there, and he beams at her as she settles onto the bank at his side, knees drawn to her chest, movements skittering pebbles and scraping the thin soles of her boots. However bright, it is still a smile she does not return. “Violet. . .”

“Yes, Sir?”

He shucks a sopping pair of trousers against the washboard, and lets the creek carry away layers of sweat and blood and soot. “Have you ever wanted your own clothes?”

One of her hands presses to the front of her collared shirt, as if to consider. Finally, she looks up to meet his curious green eyes. “I need no other clothes. But if you desire no longer to share, I will give them up.”

He chuckles, attention going back to scrubbing. “And then what would you wear? A dress?”

She does not answer.

Perhaps they both remember the nightgown Madam Silbern provided the evening they stayed at her estate. Something that was soft, and adorned with lace, and bluer than the sky above them. Violet had nothing like that, and Gilbert had none to give.

He shifts abruptly to look at her, to study out what thoughts lie behind the blue mirror of her gaze. “Violet, if you would like, I could buy you different clothes. Clothes that are. . . prettier.”

“No.” Her arms cross firmly across her chest. “I do not require anything else.”

Gilbert shifts the laundry basket separating them, in order to sit closer. “But if you were to change your mind, you promise to tell me? If it bothers you even a bit, Violet. I want to know when something is bothering you.”

“Is this an order, Sir?”

“It's. . .” He tosses a stone into the water with a _plunk._ “It's different than an order, Violet. It's because I want to make sure you are taken care of, and that you have everything you need.”

“Then.” She ducks her head, wisps of hair falling to curtain her face. “I must tell you something I've been hiding.” Her hand presses again to her chest. “I've been. . . having pain. Here.”

His eyebrows shoot up. “Why didn't you tell me?”

“It is not a problem. I am still able to do my duties.”

“Of course it's a problem, if you're in pain!” Gilbert is already on his feet, a hand straying to her shoulder as she follows his example.

“I must ask your forgiveness for keeping it from you, but I did not want to alarm you–”

“You must see the camp physician right away.”

And so she does.

Gilbert waits anxiously at the flap of Doc Redik's tent for the results of Violet's examination. He hears the soft murmurs of her replies to his questions through the tarpaulin, and the occasional chuckle from the man. Perhaps this is a good sign? Or perhaps he feels guilty and must console her, because something is dreadfully wrong.

After what seems an eternity to only one, the Doc emerges. He's barely straightened from ducking out of the tent, before Gilbert barrages him with questions. “Well? What is it? An injury? An infection?”

The man scrubs a hand at his whiskers. “Er, nothin' like that, Sir. It's much more serious.”

Gilbert braces himself for the worst, knowing he's not that brave. Go into battle, yes, but this? Anything but this. Anything but _her._ “Can something be done?”

At this, he snickers. “I don't think there's a darn thing you or I can do.” Before the good major can forget his sense of honor, can allow his fear boil to anger, Doc Redik goes on. “She's blossoming.”

“B-blossom. . . what?”

“Blossoming, ya know.” He clears his throat. “Filling out?”

The Major pales, his relief short lived. Violet is indeed growing older. He's seen it in her height, as she grows taller, and as she grows stronger. Stronger than ever before. She is excelling in her studies too, now able to read, and soon, able to write just as well as she can find the formula to any math equation. She cannot stay a child forever.

And with this knowledge, he feels again the responsibility of taking her in. He is _all_ she has in this world, and this is not something he takes lightly. He won't let her down. He can't. So he gathers his courage and enters the tent.

In the dimmed interior, lit only by an oil lamp, he sees her perched on a cot, hair drawn back in a ponytail, and the top two buttons of her shirt left undone. It strikes him again, like it hasn't in a while, that she is entirely out of place here. Violet doesn't belong in a shoddy army doctor's tent, shouldn't be wearing such dreadful clothes, or have the remnants of a healing head wound. She doesn't belong in this war.

Blue eyes draw up to greet him. “Don't be alarmed, Major. I am perfectly well. Doctor Redik has evaluated me, and concluded my health is excellent.”

Gilbert comes to kneel in front of her, so they are at eye level with one another. It's the way it must always be between them, Major or not, child or not, he could never deny her the honesty or gentleness that comes with green and blue meeting on even ground. “So, he told you what's going on?”

“He told me that my body is preparing to be a woman.” She tilts her head. “Our bodies. . . they are different?”

“I suppose they are.”

She closes her hand to a fist against her collarbone, before dainty fingers stretch out to him. It's a short journey, but she is slow in taking it, as if reaching out to a wild animal. Gilbert's unsure how to respond, what to say, but doesn't stop her as her hand finds its way to the front of his uniform, and splays against the flat, against the muscle she finds there. Her free hand presses to her own chest, and she sits that way thoughtfully.

He can't help but smile at her childishness, at her hungry curiosity. “What is it, Violet?”

“I was simply observing that our heartbeats are both the same.”

He smiles again, and in the dim light and glow of the lantern, he can only think that his eyes have played a trick on him, as he sees her eyes soften in reply. “Yes, Violet. I think they are.”

 

 


	5. Goodbye

Two weeks ago Gilbert sent the letter. A desperate request sealed with crimson wax. A request that Madam Silbern might consider taking in Violet for instruction and be entrusted in her care. Yesterday he received an answer.

Now he holds two slightly wrinkled tickets in hand, second guessing himself. The waiting train hisses, and a flurry of passengers and luggage go by. There is a young couple on the platform that catches his eye. One is in uniform, and they are doing the very thing he dreads.

They are saying goodbye.

Since day one, Violet has followed him in complete trust. Even as they board, she has yet to question where they are going and why. He motions for her to go first, then ducks his head in shame. It feels very much like he's schemed to trap a bird, to cage her, and she has no idea.

The young blonde hesitates on the step up, and with a hand steadied on the rail, she looks back. As she looks out at the rolling hills they journeyed from, he takes her in. Her porcelain skin that curves to perfect lips, and her eyes that make the sky look gray in comparison. He has always thought her beautiful, but as the horizon tugs down at the golden sun, with the way it casts its light on everything in a strange, soft way, he can't help but notice it a little more.

His companion is becoming a lady, and he has no clue what that is supposed to mean. Not really. If he holds onto her, she will learn her manners from his men, the lot of them. The drunks, the hotshots, the thieves and cheats. . . and himself, of course.

Perhaps it is less like caging her and more like setting her free. She can find who she is without the war. Without him.

Once they are settled into their mauve velvet seats, Gilbert grips tightly to the arm rests. He must tell her sometime, but the subject is so easy to put off, to avoid. Maybe he can't help but hope they'll never have to say goodbye.

It's unfortunate, but as inevitable as the train pulling from the station. The car falls into a gentle sway as the engine steams on and the wheels clack down the tracks. There's little chance they'll be turning back now.

“Violet.” Gilbert lets go of the chair in favor of fiddling with the freshly shined buttons of his uniform front. “There's something I need to tell you.”

She perks up from her quiet observance of the forest slinking by through the window. “You mean my orders, Major?”

“This isn't going to be easy,” he says, barely more than a breath.

Her voice turns hushed and solemn as his own. “Are we heading into a large battle?”

“Yes. . . but it's not what you think. This will be a different kind of battle.”

“What do you mean?”

“Tickets!” A jovial man with a red mustache and a dark, gold buttoned uniform holds out a hand. “Tickets?”

The Major digs back into his pocket to retrieve them, more wrinkled now than ever. The conductor punches the slips of paper and moves on to the next row, leaving Gilbert to stare helplessly back at Violet. What _does_ he mean?

“Major?”

“I mean, this isn't for the war. Not really. Violet. . . this is something you have to do for yourself.”

“But–”

“You are the most selfless person I've ever known. And I hate the idea of being apart, whatever you might think, this isn't because I'm punishing you or because you haven't been enough. You are always more than enough, Violet. But this is what's best for you right now.”

“I. . . I don't understand.”

“Madam Silbern has been gracious enough to take you in–”

“Major, I request that you reconsider.” There is an edge in her voice. Whatever keeps her so calm, so even and cool like glass left under starlight is wearing thin. He knows well enough that she's not void of feeling, some emotionless war machine. She's a girl. She's _human._

But she's strong. She can move on, can become more. Violet will be wonderful, and grow just the same way he's seen her grow in the string of months and months she's been at his side. At least, this is what he has to tell himself to keep from giving in to her pleading eyes and silent cry.

_Don't leave me. Don't let me go._

Amidst the gentle rocking, with their seats so close, the space between them is small. He drinks in the feeling, knowing it can't last. They are kept apart only by thin, worn armrests, which Violet has gripped tightly with her left hand. Gilbert is unable to stop himself as he reaches out, placing his trembling hand over her own.

“This is going to be goodbye, for us, Violet.”

 


End file.
